Ghost Writer
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: What if Charles Carson really DID go to Haxby? This question has always haunted me, and this is my answer. A fic request to fit the song "Ghost," by the Indigo Girls. Also includes sentiment from "My Immortal," by Evanessence, and "The Promise," by Tracy Chapman. Playlist on Spotify.


**A/N: This was a fic request from my girlfriend, who wanted a fic about her favorite Indigo Girls song, "Ghost." If you've never heard the song, do give it a listen. It's one of the most well-written songs I've ever heard, truly poetic. This also incorporates "My Immortal" and "The Promise" and they're on my Spotify account and also on YouTube.**

 **Stand-alone story, somewhat stream-of-consciousness, and NOT beta'd so please pardon comma errors, etc. It's a different style for me and I hope you like it.**

 **Angst alert!**

 **Thanks for reading and please send a little review to let me know what you think!**

 **CSotA**

She knew the instant he'd made his decision to tell her.

She could hear the change of the familiar footfalls in the corridor, of his steps which had always been so steady, so sure, so firm and full of dedication and commitment. Twenty years of working side-by-side could do that for a person, could enable one's mind to be attuned to small nuances, to changes in feeling. She had always been an expert at reading people … but she was particularly adept at reading him, of course.

She could pinpoint the very moment – three footfalls after he turned the corner, to be exact – when the sound of his steps had changed. There was a hitch in the cadence; there was a pause, infinitesimal really, but explosively loud to her fine-tuned ear. His footsteps were now just a tiny bit slower, a bit more timid, as if he were ashamed of their sound bouncing off the walls as he passed through the corridor to her sitting room, because he _knew_ the effect that the words were going to have on her, what they were going to do to her. How could he not? And it didn't matter, because he was _going to say them anyway_ if she gave him the chance.

Which she wouldn't.

The instant she heard the change in his movements, with him still quite a few paces away from her slightly open door, she was aware of a sharp pain deep inside; she realized that everything she had tucked away inside that secret little compartment of her soul, all the love she'd placed in there to be cared for so that it could grow and blossom into something beautiful, something _more_ , was starting to perish.

She knew exactly how many steps he needed to get from the end of the corridor to her door. She'd known for years, unsure of the day she realized she'd begun counting them but knowing it had been a very, very long time ago. She knew that she had exactly twelve ( _eleven … ten …_ ) footfalls left to construct some kind of shield over her heart. It would be almost impossible to do in that amount of time ( _seven … six …_ ) and hopelessly inadequate ( _three…two…_ ) but what she managed to clumsily throw together would have to do.

The knock came, the door swinging open almost before the sound of his knuckles rapping on her door had even reached her ears.

"Mrs. Hughes, do you have a moment?"

She couldn't bring herself to turn around and face him, wasn't sure she could ever look in his eyes again, really. She paused, not even half a second, but he could tell. Of course he could, of course he would hear the hesitation present in her non-speaking, because twenty years of working with her and caring very deeply for her had given him that ability somewhere along the way.

"I'm afraid I don't, Mr. Carson."

The pause. The catch of his breath. The beating of his heart, and the pounding of her own that he imagined he could hear. _Of course._

He should have known that he wouldn't even have _had_ to tell her at all. The telling would have been only a formality, because of course she _knew_ why he was here, why he was standing hesitantly in her doorway with a look on his face full of guilt and hurt and shame, a look that he knew she could see even though her back was still to him, a look that was telling her what he knew in his heart: he was a weaker man than she deserved, and he could do nothing to change that. He had chosen his path, the path of the known instead of the path of the unknown. He knew she could sense it and he knew she couldn't give him the satisfaction of confirmation or denial just yet.

"Then perhaps some wine after dinner?"

The briefest sigh, a barely-there nod. "Possibly, Mr. Carson."

They both knew it was a lie.

The sound of the door closing, the echo of his steps that carried him away, slower now than upon his arrival… the sound of her heart cracking, audible only to her, or so she hoped at least. But from the moment he turned to walk away, she couldn't wait for him to actually _leave_ , to be truly gone, truly absent from the house that until that morning she'd always inanely thought of as _theirs_. She was going to need for him to be removed from the halls, her office, her mind… her heart.

As if she had any hope of _that_. As if he would ever actually be _gone_ from her being. No, no hope whatsoever of that, but she'd try her best to purge him anyhow.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Time passed in a haze. Details were arranged, his things packed, cleaned, and sent on ahead. No more wine or nips of sherry were shared because neither of them could bear it; neither could handle those evenings of being together, yet all alone somehow. It was an unspoken agreement that never needed to be discussed; she decided that she just couldn't bear to have him visit her anymore; that same day, he simply stopped presenting himself at her door. _By unspoken communication, so often their way._

They each felt that their friendship, this thing they'd spent decades building and fine-tuning, honing into something smooth and fluid and beautiful, full of emotion and feeling and unspoken conversations, was hanging on by the thinnest filament. It was in danger of snapping completely, and neither of them could bear it. At the end of the day he was abandoning her for another, pulling the filament dangerously taut; she was powerless to stop it from happening, and he couldn't go back on his word.

It was slowly killing them both.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

On the evening he had finally left, she'd locked herself away and wept. They had been hot, angry tears full of frustration and anger for all the years they'd wasted, living in fear of losing their standing in the house, their jobs, their individuality; eventually they became soft, silent tears of hurt and regret for the life she'd always dreamed of that he could not grant her now, a life that could have involved children she'd actually borne instead of the ones they'd just raised, a life lived in a home that was truly their own.

And the excruciating irony of the whole situation was that it didn't matter, really, that he'd moved away; he was still present in everything. She heard the ghost of his footsteps in the corridor, felt the whisperings of his voice permeate her mind as memories emanated from his seat at the head of the servants' dining table, from the chair that was now occupied by a surly and rather under-qualified Mr. Barrow.

She would see his shadow across the wall in her sitting room, just out of the corner of her eye when her eyes were supposed to be trained on ledger sums and rotas and shopping lists. The days when he _actually_ visited the house, in the aspect of his strange, new job where he was both butler and valet, those days were her living hell. That first holiday season was particularly horrible – escaping him in the servants' hall had proven impossible. After that, she tried to arrange the days he would be visiting as her days off, fleeing the house before he arrived. Twice she pulled it off; after that, when she couldn't manage leaving again without someone suspecting, she just camped out in a linen storage closet or some other little-visited part of the house, listening for the sounds of the departing carriage.

But of course, on the days when he _was_ inside of the house it really didn't matter where she hid; on those days his voice really _was_ echoing in the halls, his footsteps really _could_ be heard in the corridors, and her attempt to pull him from her mind, her heart, and her soul would have to start from step one all over again. If she was grateful for anything it was that, after the first few visits, he stopped seeking her out.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

She woke suddenly, covered in sweat once again. A growl escaped her mouth before she could even realize she would make the sound. She was frustrated, exhausted, and empty, going through the motions of her days for the sole purpose of being the housekeeper, never allowing the dormant _woman_ inside of her to awaken. She knew she had become hell to live with, hell to talk to, hell to work for, and there was no way around it.

She spared a moment to glance at the wall, trying to make out the hands of the clock in the feeble light of the fire.

 _3:00._

 _Not that it matters._ She knew no more sleep would come and, if it did, it would be just as cursed and haunted as it always was with its visions and glimpses of hands being held, arms squeezed in comfort, resonating words that made their way from his mouth into the recesses of her heart, words shared between them that were discussing rotas, books, wine, the last Servants' Ball, Miss O'Brien's latest trouble-making scheme. His voice flowed through her dreams and into her very core. She remembered how the lovely, soft timbre of it had instantly captured her heart all those years ago; it had more recently become the voice that she associated with her conscience, humming to her at times throughout the day when she had a decision to make about something that would seem insignificant to anyone but him. She wanted that voice to give her the advice she needed, but she felt even more strongly the need for it to be silenced. She could usually manage that when she was awake.

She put her feet to the floor and stood up, washing in brisk, cool water in a feeble attempt to clean the stale tears that had left tracks on her face. She didn't even have to look; she knew they'd be there. They were there every morning, every day that she pulled herself from the agony of her dreams. It had been almost three years, and yet nothing had changed.

At times, she truly thought she was going insane … slowly, very slowly, but she figured she'd get all the way there in the end. And when she wasn't conscious of being afraid for her mental stability, she spent her days angry with the world. It was easier, really, than being kind-hearted. She could hide behind the anger, let it seep into her and take over the heart that had once chanced being open, kind, and loving only to have that backfire horrifically the day he left: the day he had decided, once and for all, that anything they had been nurturing and growing between them would be no match for the blessed Lady Mary.

 _Lady Mary._ Where had _she_ been when he wept for Lady Sybil? Where had _she_ been when he was ill, when he'd fallen abed from stress during the war, when he'd had that infernal flu, when … when … She could go on and on in her mind, knowing she shouldn't continue down that path but knowing she couldn't stop, each fleeting thought tearing her Haxby-shaped wound further open until she could only stitch it up in anger and harsh words, directed at others but never at him.

He had written to her, of course, throughout all those months when he was helping to build up another house while slowly breaking her apart. He'd sent small missives that spoke in their roundabout way of his sorrow without saying anything about actually being sorry. He'd sent lengthier messages when he had the time, describing all the things she never wanted to know about: the house, the staff, the surrounding landscape, how the sun would set over the hill and bounce off the walls of the house, flickering as it was reflected off the ripples of the stream that ran behind the servants' door. He wrote of the horses, the hunts, the parties; he even had the gall to write to her about the inadequate housekeeper who would never be good enough for him because it wasn't _her_.

She never wanted to know any of it, and yet she replied politely in those early days, always asking about his life, his health, until she couldn't take it anymore and finally, _finally_ , wrote of her disappointment, of how she wanted to hear nothing more of his darling Lady Mary and her darling new baby, nothing more about his new life that included everyone but her, to please spare her that if he cared for her at all; which, she thought, he must not have. Not enough, anyhow.

His response to her words was minimal. She wasn't even guilty, not really, upon reading the words he'd put to paper that last time, the words that stabbed at what small remainder of living was left in her heart. He'd written and apologized, tried to explain, and she wanted none of it. To be honest, until that last letter had arrived, she had often assumed that the organ which took residence in her chest was no longer capable of anything resembling love, thinking that by this point it must solely existing as a physiological need, as a functioning thing, but containing nothing of its former self.

Evidently, she'd been wrong, the familiar pain reminding her once again that it was still hiding somewhere in there.

She wrote back one last time, one final letter saying that no more would follow, saying that she'd evidently lost the war to win him over years ago and she just couldn't spend any more of herself on him. She had to save what was left to get her through each day; she had to take herself back at last. She told him that she knew he'd understand.

It was the greatest lie she'd ever told, because she knew that the essence of who she was belonged to him already, and he still had all of her despite the coldness that had taken over her heart … all that had been kind and good and sweet and loving, he'd taken it with him the instant his new, slightly slower footsteps had carried him out of her sitting room door for the last time.

She wondered if she'd ever get it back.

OoOoOoOoOoO

He sat on his bed and placed his drink on the bedside table. Opening the drawer, he pulled out the letters. He set them gently on the bed, fingering the half-shredded ribbon that held them together precariously. He paused, wondering if it was worth it, but before he finished the thought he knew it was futile.

He grasped the end of the tie and pulled gently, releasing the envelopes from their binding and watching them spill down, a tumbling of memories and lost opportunities. Taking the most recent in his hands first, he extracted the paper and unfolded it, simultaneously dreading and relishing the feelings its words would bring.

His eyes raked over the words in front of him, letter by haunting letter. It was pointless, really, because he had them memorized - he had them ALL memorized, and had for years - but seeing the neat, lovely script was his penance. As he read the words he noticed the way her lovely, Scottish brogue was seeping into his mind, bringing him back to the instant he'd thrown his life away forever. He read the words once, twice, a third time; each word was a reminder that opened the chasm in his heart again.

By the time the tears started to fall, the letters were back in their protective envelopes again, tucked and tied away in the drawer. He didn't know how much longer he could continue this. Then again, he thought, he had no idea how to stop.

OoOoOoOoOoO

He woke with a start. _That blasted dream again_.

If you'd asked the man if he'd ever thought he could be so unhappy, he'd have scoffed at the idea. A life in service had always suited him just fine: order and structure, predictability, minimum of fuss and, _once_ , a remarkable friendship. He'd been content for more years than he could remember and, for several years now, he'd been earning a hefty salary for a man who'd been born into poverty and had somehow risen above it all. Many would say he had everything; he had often felt that were true but, then again, he'd thrown it away, hadn't he? Not the money, no, but the _life_ he'd had. He knew now what his mistake had been, but it had taken the words of an old friend to make him realize it; of course, there was nothing to be done about it now, not if he wanted to keep his job.

Then again, he was so unsure and unsteady lately that he knew his work was already was suffering immensely. He'd been asked to come to Haxby because he'd always been an outstanding butler and because he had experience prior to that serving as Lord Grantham's valet, but also because Lady Mary – always his favorite – had asked him to come. They all knew that was the real reason, the reason he was willing to be both butler _and_ valet. He was being well-compensated, of course, but the true reason he accepted was that he wanted to watch out for his favorite of the daughters, to keep an eye on her as he always had done in the past. He had wanted to help her during those early days when she was to be setting up her own home, resurrecting Haxby from the death it had suffered during the war and turning it into a home that would be as well-respected as Downton itself. He had truly thought that, with his help, she could make it happen; he'd thought it would be the crowning glory of his career, enabling him to retire at the very top of his profession, happy at last. He was counting on the success.

What he hadn't counted on was the possibility that he could be horribly, unequivocally _wrong_ about what it was, exactly, that would make him happy.

He'd thought the choice simple at the time: choose one of two women, both of whom he'd loved as long as he'd known them, albeit in different ways. He was asked to abandon one of them in order to support and work for the other. He now knew he'd chosen a future with the one who _didn't_ really need him as much as he'd thought, and had left behind the one who, he now suspected, just might have needed him all along – perhaps even as much as _he_ evidently had always needed _her_. After that first month on the Haxby path he had acknowledged to himself that it had been the wrong choice, and now it was too late to take it back.

It had been an oversight of unfathomable proportion, not seeing what had been staring him right in the face with big, deep blue eyes, if only he'd opened his own enough to have seen it. He'd written so many letters, so many words, trying to convince her of the rightness of his choice, but with each word he'd come closer and closer to finally severing their connection completely.

He could no longer pretend that he'd thought she'd be fine, couldn't pretend that, of the two women, the elder had been stronger and therefore would survive without much difficulty. Looking back on their friendship - their _relationship,_ as it had been - he recognized that she might never forgive him. He had suspected how hard it would be for _him_ , too, but that never seemed as important as maintaining his stature, his professional reputation in Yorkshire.

And so he wrote to her as he always had during the Season, and he kept on writing, sending those awful letters that maintained the only connection he knew how to keep – distant, but personal nonetheless. He had thought at the time it was his own self-inflicted punishment but, in the end, it had perhaps punished her more. It must have, because eventually she told him to just _stop_.

He visited Downton on occasion, as the job required. The first time – at Christmas, he remembered – he'd moved about his old haunt in an atmosphere of distraction but had somehow been able to put forth a manner of collegiality, able to maintain conversations in a professional tone while upholding the respect of both houses. However, he was vaguely aware that, during those times, part of his brain was listening for words issued in her distinctive brogue from across the table, for the telltale sound of her heels clicking along the corridors, for the sound of the twinkling of keys bouncing from her chatelaine as they collided with her hip or were brushed by the fabric of her dress. When he'd returned the second time, he'd realized he'd heard none of those things … as if she were gone, had disappeared completely. He had asked after her, politely and professionally of course, but no one had known where she was at the time. He even bumped into her once, purely by accident, but a gruff "Good afternoon, Mr. Carson" had been swiftly followed by the swish of her skirts as she'd brushed past him into the kitchen. After three or four visits, he stopped seeking her out completely, having by that time validated his suspicion that she was, in fact, avoiding him at all costs.

And his conversations with the other staff, how they hurt him! Whispered confidences of how Mr. Barrow was woefully inadequate as butler, how standards were down, but most of all how the once motherly-yet-firm Mrs. Hughes had actually become the Scottish Dragon they once accused her of being: short with staff, eager to fly off the handle, sitting room door closed and heaven forbid anyone knock when it was. He was confused by this at first; it upset him, and he wondered if her health might be failing. _Why else would her manner have changed so drastically?_

So he did the only thing he could: he asked the cook. That had been a mistake, perhaps, but at least he got his answer.

"Mr. Carson," she said softly (that was his first indication that he wasn't going to like the words that would spill forth from her mouth…she _never_ spoke softly), "Why do _you_ think she's like this? Can you think of _anything_ , of _any_ event, that may have happened to have caused this behavior? A behavior which, I might add, started shortly after Mr. Barrow became the not-so-esteemed 'Butler of Downton Abbey'?"

He realized in that instant how he'd thrown away his future. His decision to follow Lady Mary had been _easy_ because it provided a break from his fears: fears of declaring his love and not having it returned; fears that in making that declaration he'd destroy the best friendship he'd ever had.

In taking the easy path, he'd made his fears come true.

Time seemed to stop, and he was aware of a faint noise in his ears, somewhere between humming and buzzing. Not one for fainting spells, he wasn't sure what the sensation was, precisely; it was as if his head were encased in bubble. He sat abruptly in the cook's chair, wondering if he were dying. In truth, he really hadn't needed to ask about the change in the housekeeper's demeanor because he'd already had the answer sitting unacknowledged in the back of his mind. He had known that she'd be angry when he left Downton, disappointed perhaps… but never _this;_ he never in his heart of hearts expected his departure to have changed her so _deeply_. He'd thought she could manage without him, manage just fine as she always seemed to do. She had always been the strong one, he the one who needed steadying from time to time. _Not now, apparently._

He had no idea when his feelings toward her had shifted, no idea precisely when he'd begun to _love_ the woman. When had he moved on from a collegial working relationship into something, well, _more?_ Since when had conversations about scheduling, deliveries, and staffing turned into a desire for sharing intimate confessions about his past, a brush of the knee under the table, a comforting, familiar squeeze from her hand just what he required in a moment of sorrow? It had started like a pinprick, but once the water had started seeping in, the thing seemed to have grown.

Now, after years of denial, sorrow, and realization, of course it would be too late. No wonder she'd been avoiding him when he visited. What on earth could she possibly have to say to him that she'd not already said? _Stop writing to me._ Which translated into, he well knew, _I don't want to speak to you again._ The irony of the whole, awful situation was that if she'd only reach out one last time, he'd abandon this life completely. She haunted his dreams, driving him to the brink of insanity, and yet she was the only cure for it.

"Mr. Carson?" came the cook's distant voice. Then, quite suddenly, he felt a slap to the back of his hand.

"Mrs. Patmore! Did you just strike me?"

"Well, I had to get your head out of that cloud now, didn't I?" She paused, then said gently, "Leave it be, Mr. Carson. You made your choice, and how you've got to live with it."

He nodded and accepted the cup of tea she held out to him, realizing he'd never actually seen her prepare it.

 _What have I done?_

OoOoOoOoOoO

He handed in his notice before Christmas, to be effective beginning the first day of the New Year. Sir Richard was furious, and if not for Lady Mary the notice would have been moot because his employment would have been terminated immediately.

Lady Mary, to her credit, understood right away the words that were _unsaid_ in the formal notice he'd handed her at breakfast. A knock had sounded on his pantry door later that morning, and he stood immediately upon recognizing it. The familiar whisper from the past, of other knocks on another door, of the swish skirts and the twinkling of keys … those remembered hints almost made him falter, but not quite.

"I'm sorry, Carson" she said without preamble. "I thought, in the beginning, that you could be happy here, but as soon as you arrived I knew I'd been wrong. I cannot thank you enough for having come here with me, but now I fear that the cost to you was greater than I want to consider, even now."

He was stunned by her words, attempting unsuccessfully to keep tears from his eyes. This woman before him, always so steady and sure but who, inside, was a vastly different person – one that only he and her husband had ever truly seen, he knew – had come to _apologize_. She'd done nothing unexpected, nothing he would have chided her for in the past, and he couldn't bear the thought that she felt his unhappiness was her fault.

"I've no one to blame but myself, Milady," he responded quietly. "I admit, I also fear that it's too late. But I shall at least try."

She nodded, then stepped around his desk and placed a brief kiss on his cheek. "I'll be fine, now," she said softly. "I am ashamed to say it to you, but I think I always would have been. But having had you here to support me is something I have appreciated – perhaps more than you know."

He nodded, unable to speak. He was grateful for the words, but their sound only echoed in the back of his mind; the rest of his brain was already battling the ghost of the past, trying to figure out how to right the immense wrong he'd committed.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"Mrs. Hughes, a letter for you," Alfred said quietly, handing her a small envelope.

She took it and glimpsed the writing. Dropping it as though it were on fire, she noticed Alfred staring oddly at her. She picked it up and tucked it away, thanking him.

 _What to do?_ Throwing it in the bin was her first thought, but then she reconsidered. It wasn't the letter itself that had struck her, but rather the amount of time that had passed since their last correspondence. _So much time …_ _wouldn't it be better to let it lie?_ She patted the envelope through the fabric of her pocket, deciding to let it rest there until she made a decision about it.

The rest of the day passed without incident, although it was a busy one and she barely had a moment to herself. It was only when she began to undress for bed that she heard the crinkle of the paper and remembered. Standing there, her hand squeezing the paper through the fabric, wondering … Looking to the side of her desk, she let her eyes rest on the bin. She had no idea how long she'd been standing there before she moved, heading over toward the chair. Sitting quickly, aware that her legs were losing the ability to hold her up, she reached her hand down and unlocked the bottom drawer, the smallest key of her chatelaine fitting smoothly into the lock it had opened regularly years ago despite not having done so recently.

The deep drawer only contained one thing: a tied-together bundle of letters. She reflected on just how small it looked sitting in there. _Fitting_ , she thought, _they almost look lonely._ Removing the letters, she carried them to her bed. She spared a moment to notice she'd had yet to finish changing her clothes and that she was sitting on the bed with the front of her dress unbuttoned. It didn't really matter, but _anything_ being left undone was just so unusual for her, and it was a true sign of her distraction. She untied the packet of letters and set them aside, then tore open the new one with trepidation, sparing a moment to wonder about it again: _Why now?_

Of all the letters she'd ever received from the man, this was by far the briefest:

 _Mrs. Hughes,_

 _I'm retiring as of 1 January, the desire to return home one that I can no longer suppress._

 _May I see you?_

 _C.C._

Retiring … _Retiring?_ The unstoppable, unbeatable Charles Carson, the man who planned to die in livery and haunt Downton (or, ahem, Haxby perhaps) forevermore … retiring. _Truly?_

He'd given her more to think about with those two dozen words than he had in the past several letters he'd written. Those others had all been about his present at the time, perhaps a bit of the past, but full of regrets, sadness, guilt and loss.

But this … this new letter spoke of the _future_ and, perhaps, about _hope …_ and it made her angry, oh yes, that he would presume she'd be waiting for him … but she'd be a liar if she said it didn't also pique her curiosity, if she said it didn't call to some deep, quiet, long-ago thing hidden deep inside of her.

Why now? Why, after all this time? He'd given up asking after her years ago, had given up being _concerned_. She'd changed, too much probably to ever be that non-dragon she'd been so long ago, to be that woman who had welcomed a friendship with the man who'd always stood by her side, the woman who had opened her heart and dared to wish for him to step inside of it completely. The keeper of the keys had locked _that_ door years ago, covering it in layers of dragon-fire, of harshness and abruptness and icy-blue stares in place of warm, soft glances.

 _But perhaps …_

She returned to the desk, opened the other drawer and withdrew the bottle of whiskey and one of the glasses she kept inside. Pouring herself a healthy measure, she downed it in one. Grabbing the bottle as well, she returned to the bed and set the glass and bottle on the table before settling in. Tossing back a second drink, she sat down and began to read, sifting through all of those words that he'd written long ago in his lovely, precise script. She took the time to familiarize herself once again with the cadence of his voice, remembering its timbre and the changes in volume as she began once again to _hear_ the letters instead of just simply _reading_ them.

By the time she'd gotten through her third glass of whiskey and half the pile of letters, she'd noticed a shift in her thinking. She'd allowed the message that arrived today to seep underneath her harsh exterior, and it would be her downfall. Or maybe her release? She hadn't decided yet.

Those written words that had harmed her so harshly in the past now seemed to be sending her a new message: rather than one of pride in his job well-done, in respect for the stately home and the strength that Lady Mary was showing in both motherhood and in estate-building, she now read an undercurrent of his sadness. She could see now, years removed from the intense pain of it all, that his old letters only really communicated one thing: loneliness. The man had been lonely, excruciatingly so, and her answer, in her grief and her anger, and been to tell him to leave her alone. It had been necessary at the time for her own survival, and she wondered now if it had irrevocably harmed _him._

And then she cared all over again; no, that wasn't quite right; _she remembered that she always had._

She headed back to her desk and scrawled out a reply. It appeared brevity was in order, she thought, as she remembered the note he'd sent today. She chuckled, the sound odd in her room after so many days and months devoid of happiness and humor. Sealing the envelope with a shake of her head and a smile settling on her face she re-buttoned her dress, still wondering if she'd actually drop her letter _in_ the pile of outgoing post or perhaps just take it back to her room, destined for the fire.

Having just passed through her bedroom door, she noticed herself falter. It was an infinitesimal pause, but explosively loud in her own mind because of what it meant. When she started walking again seconds later, her decision had been firmly made. Her footsteps were just a tiny bit quicker, a bit surer, as if the happiness and hope that were starting to bubble up inside of her were bouncing off the walls as she passed down the corridor to the servants' hall. Happiness and hope, because she _knew_ what this letter would do to him, knew what it could mean for her, she knew the effect it could have. How could she not? And it mattered a great deal, because she was _going to send it to him_.

She was going to give them one more chance.

OoOoOoOoOoO

 _Well. Foolish to think that she'd have written, really. She made herself clear long ago._

He returned to packing his things, preparing to leave in three days' time. He'd decided to reserve a room at the Grantham Arms for now, unsure as to whether he wanted to retire at a cottage on the Haxby estate or use his savings and his generous severance pay to purchase something further away. It would depend on whether or not a reply arrived in the post, which wasn't looking good. It had been barely two days, and he'd almost given up hope.

And then a knock sounded, a perfectly-liveried footman appeared, and a letter was placed into a trembling, waiting hand. A brief nod of thanks, and then a door closing, followed by the sound of a very tired, very anxious butler sitting heavily in his chair. Then the sound of a letter opener, carefully slicing open a familiar, cream-colored envelope with the small vine embossed along the edge. A smile full of wonder, of trepidation, a pause as he considered the possibilities, and the whisper of the page being removed from the envelope, followed by the crinkle of it being unfolded.

 _Mr. Carson, RETIRING? I never thought I'd see the day._

 _I'd like very much to see you, I think._

 _You know where I'll be._

 _E.H._

He wept then, years' worth of sadness, frustration, regret, and misery pouring down his ruddy face and onto the paper he held his lap. Heart-wrenching, body-wracking sobs for the life he'd wasted, followed by tears of hope and joy for the possibility to build the future he'd years ago given up envisioning.

Rising from the chair, he headed up to his room, retrieving the packet of letters once again from their place in the bedside table. Pulling open the fragile ribbon, he let a harsh laugh escape his lips as it snapped in two at last, years of daily opening and retying having finally taken their toll. The ribbon had always reminded him of their friendship, their _relationship_ , the tenuous filaments held together only barely as he'd made the decision to leave her. He marveled at how this physical ribbon had held itself together all this time, holding her words together for him over the years, only to snap now that he would once again _hear_ words spilling from her mouth instead of reading them on these vine-detailed, cream-colored pages.

Fitting, that.

OoOoOoOoOoO

On New Year's Day she woke before the sun, marveling as she watched it creep slowly up the horizon and lend its warmth to the frozen land. Oddly, she'd had no dreams that she could remember. Giving silent thanks for what she hoped would be a bright day ahead, she eventually made herself get out of bed, dress, and head down to the servants' hall for something to eat. She tried to maintain conversations with Mr. Barrow (quite difficult) and Anna (much easier), but half her mind was on the letter she still carried in her pocket. Hearing Miss Baxter speak to her, she pulled herself back to the present moment and answered her: _Yes, I've had this one for a while. No, I've not worn it for ages._

She hadn't thought they'd notice. She had forgotten that one could _always_ count on Miss Baxter to notice _everything_ , new dresses that were actually old dresses included.

Mr. Barrow left the table, others rushed up to answer the bells by which they'd been summoned, and a knock sounded at the servants' entrance. She couldn't breathe, wasn't sure if she should watch the door or not, whether she should maybe wait at the table or head down the corridor. She chose the latter.

The door was answered by, of all people, Daisy. She was about to speak but he silenced her with a finger to his lips, seeing a familiar figure hurrying down the corridor. Removing his hat, he headed down after her.

The instant she heard his footsteps, with him still quite a few paces away from her slightly open door, she was aware of a small, happy feeling deep inside her, realizing that everything she had tucked away inside that secret little compartment of her soul, all the love she'd thought had perished three years ago, wanted to grow and blossom once again … if she'd only let it.

Which, of course, she _would._

The knock came, the door swinging open almost before the sound of his knuckles rapping on her door even reached her ears.

"Mrs. Hughes, do you have a moment?"

She made herself turn around in her seat and face him, forced herself to look in his eyes, seeking an answer to the question she'd been holding prisoner in her heart. She paused, not even half a second, but he could tell. Of course he could, of course he would hear the hesitation present in her non-speaking, because twenty lovely years of working with her, followed by three awful ones when he did not, still gave him that ability; realizing he'd cared for her the entire time enabled him to speak again before she could answer.

"Actually, I'm going to presume from your letter that you do, in fact, have a moment?" A familiar smirk, accompanied by raised, bushy eyebrows.

The pause. The catch of his breath. The beating of his heart, and the pounding of her own that he imagined he could hear.

"As it happens, Mr. Carson, I have the entire day today." And, with that, she rose from her seat and crossed the room to take his hand in hers. "I presume you have the day as well?" she said with a soft smile, a twinkle in her eyes behind the tears that threatened to spill over.

A chuckle, warmth flooding his deep, dark eyes. _"I_ have all the time in the world." A pause, and a sadness sweeping aside the mirth in one fell swoop. "I'm hoping to spend as much of it as possible making the last three years up to you, but I fear nothing can correct the wrong I've committed."

She didn't know what to say, which was a new sensation to say the least.

"Perhaps a walk," he suggested meekly, "if it's not too cold for you?"

She nodded.

He helped her on with her coat, then watched as she fixed her scarf, hat and gloves to her liking. She had shuddered at the brief touch of his fingers on her shoulder, thinking of how she'd likely already smiled more today than she had in the past three years.

 _Gone in a flash_ , she thought. _Three years of upset and tears and dragon-fire, all swept away with a brush of his fingers._

They slipped out the door. For the first time in recent memory, she was happy. She looked up at him and smiled, taking his elbow as they made their way to the lake.

Halfway there, he noticed she'd sidled up to his body more, as if she were too cold but he could tell she wasn't. Well, he didn't _think_ she was; _he_ was shivering from the very not-cold sensations that were traveling through his body. He stopped suddenly, catching her as the abrupt lack of movement made her stumble and turn to look in his eyes with a questioning look.

He stared into the deep blue of her eyes, all the guilt and sadness in his own no match for the caring and concern he found in hers. He crumbled first and she took him in her arms, listening to his soft sounds of apologies – sorry for hurting her, for leaving her, for wasting time. She listened to his confessions of guilt that she might only be here today out of obligation to an old friend, or that he'd misunderstood her meaning when she had written her letter days ago, or when she'd tucked her body next to his just now.

 _Enough._

No longer willing to remain silent, she backed away and reached for his cheek, turning his face so that his eyes met hers.

"No," she said quietly. "No more."

And, with that, she placed the softest kiss to his lips, staking her claim at last as she wished she'd done some twenty years ago. He returned it with force, and between the two of them they managed to sear away decades' worth of fear, guilt, anger and hurt. When they broke apart at last, they felt a bit like their former selves, but stronger for having withstood all that had come between them.

With a smile and a nod for one another, followed by a powerful glance full of all the unspoken words they needed, they resumed their places side-by-side and continued on their way, looking forward to the decisions that would await them as they moved forward down this new path … _together_.


End file.
